


Positive Anything

by RC_McLachlan



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Bulma, Bulma Briefs is the queen we deserve, Canon-Typical Violence, Curtain Fic, F/M, Kid Fic, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/pseuds/RC_McLachlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of things written for people on tumblr. Alternatively titled "The Briefs Family Variety Hour."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smile! You're on Candid Camera.

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to put all my tumblr prompt fills in one place. Well, for the most part. I gave a few prompt fills (like the saiyan royalty AU) their own posts. More will be added!
> 
> If you're itching for me to write you a thing, feel free to [prompt me!](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com/ask)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _more vegebul/bra pleeeease_

“He’s going to be so pissed when he finds out.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.” Which will someday be the title of her autobiography, because if Vegeta knew even _half_ the shit she got up to without his knowledge he’d rupture something. Middle age has turned him into such a buzzkill. It’s always _blah blah you’re human and your body can’t take the strain blah blah you’re not young anymore blah blah you can’t antagonize intergalactic terrorists without consequence what the hell is wrong with you_ , like she’s new to this life. She made her bones in this world by doing whatever the hell she wants, and she has no plans to stop now.

Pausing, Bulma looks to her left and squints. “What do you mean ‘when’? Don’t you mean ‘if’?”

“I’m just saying.” Trunks gives a cavalier shrug. “It’d be a _real_ shame if someone let it slip by accident.”

Her jaw drops. “Are you _blackmailing_  me?”

“No, no,” he says, completely unconvincingly. “I’m only saying that tensions run high when you’re training and things are sometimes said that can’t be taken back. It might be in your best interest to… oh, I don’t know, make sure that doesn’t happen. Like, with a car. Like, with a 785 Sacra 450SL in hot red.”

Turning, she fixes her signature _I am not impressed_  glare upon him with the impact of a heat-seeking SCUD missile. That look has cowed countless CEOs into capitulating to her demands, and it’s also never failed to get Trunks to clean under his bed. She takes a vicious amount of glee in the way he flinches back from it.

“You know what, sweetie? You’re absolutely right,” Bulma says, bright as the afternoon sun streaming through the living room windows. “But instead of a car, how about I do you one better? In exchange for not telling your father about this, I won’t ask you about why HotTwinks.com keeps showing up on my credit card statement every month.”

She couldn’t have shocked him more if she’d fired a blast of ki from her hand and knocked him through the wall. Glowing a deep shade of red, Trunks lets out a strangled squeak and beats a hasty retreat from the room. 

Later, she’ll corner him and suggest they cancel the HotTwinks subscription and try JayBo Studios, which boasts much higher production values. Plus, the guys tend to be way more into it. Not that she knows from experience or anything.

Turning back to the couch, Bulma crosses her arms and studies the tableau stretched out before her, unable to keep a smile from tugging at her lips.

Even after all these years, Vegeta’s still primed to wake at the slightest movement. Sometimes she’ll shift in bed and he’ll be on his feet like someone sent a million volts through him. No matter how many times she rolls over and muzzily promises him that he’s safe, that everything’s fine, he won’t be able to go back to sleep. 

This may be the first time she’s ever seen him conked out like this. He’s stretched out along the length of the couch, chin tipped back, breath coming soft and slow, whistling through his barely parted lips. His face is utterly relaxed. He looks younger like this, unburdened. 

But it’s the sight of their little girl snoozing right alongside daddy, tucked into his massive arms with her face nestled trustingly into his chest, that makes Bulma’s heart cramp. It’s actually all she can do to keep from shrieking, because god _damn_ , it’s so sweet that it’s giving her cavities.

And because she has no self-preservation instincts to speak of, she reopens the camera app on her phone and takes aim. 

While what Vegeta doesn’t know may not kill him, setting this as her lock screen and looking at it day after day might be the thing that finally does  _her_ in. 


	2. A+ Parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Could you write about Bra's first day at preschool with Vegeta accompanying her._

It’s the shoes that stop him in his tracks: tiny, shiny, and black, with dainty straps slung over even daintier ankles, acting as armor to frilly, white socks. They click together, rounded heels and toes, and catch the light, damn near blinding him. He stares at them dumbly and thinks, _Those are not the boots of saiyan royalty_.

His daughter is rearranging things in her bright yellow bag, shifting her lunchbox to make room for her other lunchbox, then forcing a brown paper bag of snacks in between the two. 

“… had to read a book for school,” Bulla is saying, and Vegeta shakes himself out of his stupor. “I wanted to read it with you, but mama read it with me because she said–she said nice things give you hives.”  


“For someone who goes around bitch-slapping gods, mama sure does run her mouth a lot,” he muses pleasantly.  


Bulla rummages around in the bag and withdraws a book whose cover is a patchwork of red and pink flowers. Blazoned across it in gold is _A Little Princess_.

“It’s about a princess named Sara who goes to live at a school, and she’s really rich, but then her papa dies and she has to live in the attic and serve the other girls their dinner. That won’t happen at _my_ school, right?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You are an actual princess, Bulla. If someone tries to make you do something you don’t want, what do you do?”

“Kill them all and salt the earth with their ashes,” she recites cheerfully.   


“Good girl.”


	3. Introspection in V Minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Vegebul with Trunks and Bra? Maybe Vegeta thinking of what ifs but his family brought him back to reality._

Sometimes he thinks about how easy it was to bow his head and lose his own history in order to turn the clock back. He had spent years defying his upbringing, declared himself a free man to anyone who would listen, refused to know the bitter taste of that kind of loss ever again, and then simply traded the brand of one tyrant for another. It had been easy to romanticize the creature forged from a thousand hurts and betrayals, to look back on the man he used to be and see that life through a softer lens. It took minutes for Babadi to hook him with the promise of power and enslave him to it. 

The burn of it, the curls of the _M_ branding into his very skin, is an occasional phantom pain, whispering through his veins at night when sleep is too far out of reach, or when his mind thinks he needs the reminder of how much of a coward he truly is.

And yet, he’s almost certain that if he were ever afforded the opportunity again and were dumb enough to untether himself from the life he’s made, there would be people there to grip his ties and refuse to let go.  


“Pa _pa_ , you’re not watching!” Little hands reach up as if they mean to wrap around his loose strings, patting at his cheeks, and Vegeta startles out of his thoughts to look down into wide, blue eyes.  


“Bulla, you’ve seen this a million times.” He settles back and tucks her into the crook of his arm, lips twitching when she immediately burrows as close as she can get.   


She makes a plaintive noise. “It’s my favorite part and I want you to watch.”  


On screen, a woman breaks convention and unites an entire country. They bow to her not because she is of noble blood and is owed their allegiance, but because she did what needed to be done. 

No one on this planet will drop to their knees for him of their own volition, other than when their legs buckle in fear at the scope of his power. His children will not sit upon a throne built from the blood and bones of those they conquer, and his wife will never wear a crown. His royal legacy will die with him. Somewhere in the bowels of hell, his forefathers wail at the utter disappointment he’s become.

Except…

Except he has attained a level none of his forebears ever dreamed of. His children carry that power in their very atoms. His heir shattered a legend well before his prime, and his daughter commands a room with her very presence. His chosen companion would have been rejected and ridiculed in his father’s kingdom for her exotic looks, but would have been revered for the way her hands create life and purpose where it shouldn’t exist. She wields the world the way the old priests wielded myth, and she still finds it wanting.

Most mornings find him more present in his skin than he ever was before. It takes only the gentle, fearless touch of his wife to wash away the ghost of Babadi; his children’s laughter and accomplishments disperse Frieza’s torments as if they were so much smoke. 

He has made a life in which the power Babadi and Frieza both promised him could never have brought, and the thought puts paid to the storm of shame in his mind for now. 

“Someday, I’m going to unite the Middle Kingdom,” Bulla sighs at the screen where the heroine takes her rewards and heads for home. She snuggles close, and he obligingly tightens his arm around her.   


This is his empire, and it provides him with all the power he could ever want.

“Of course you will.” A proud smile tugs at his mouth, and he lets it unfurl. “You’re my child, after all.”  



	4. Parent-Teacher Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _vegeta somehow gets dragged to a parent teacher conference or even has to go alone for some reason?_

This place smells like fish sticks. 

In lieu of bars on the windows, there are cut-outs of butterflies and dinosaurs and jellyfish, and the walls are lined with books–all aligned like soldiers in formation, adorned in colorful jackets and boasting titles like _The Adventures of Tin-Tin_  and _Venus Among the Fishes_. The white board is covered with sentences of various complexities, and the closet door is covered in cut-out kittens and puppies and monkeys. One of the monkeys is sporting a spiky haircut not dissimilar to his own.

It’s Hell. He’s back in Hell. There’s no other explanation.

With a bland smile, Bulla’s teacher waves her hand toward the tiny, plastic chairs strewn about the room, and implores them, “Mr. and Mrs. Briefs, please take a seat.” 

As if they were recalcitrant children to be punished. Vegeta crosses his arms and locks his knees.

Unimpressed, Bulma jabs an elbow to his ribs before folding into one of the chairs. She looks ridiculous. “Miss Enn, I was very surprised to get a call from you. Bulla hasn’t mentioned any trouble at school. I was under the impression that everything was okay. Was I wrong?”

Perfect. Bulma will ensure they’re in and out of this nightmare in a few minutes. While she sorts through whatever bullshit was deemed important enough to haul them _both_ to Bulla’s school, he opts to stand behind Bulma and glare. It’s not the first time he’s used his hard demeanor to frighten people into cooperating with his wife, and it probably won’t be the last. It’s actually a role he’s glad to play. Keeping idiots in fear for their livelihood is one of life’s little joys.

In response to the united front they present, Miss Enn smiles like she lacks a central nervous system. “Bulla is a very bright, bubbly girl, and she is a pleasure to have in class.”

“Then… what’s the issue?” Bulma crosses her legs at the knee and sits back against Vegeta’s hip. “You said it was an urgent matter.”  


Miss Enn nods. “I didn’t want to do anything without discussing it with you first, but… We had an assignment on Monday. I asked the class to write about their favorite memory.”

“And?”   


“Well.” Miss Enn reaches for something on her frighteningly tidy desk and comes away with a piece of paper. She walks over and hands it to Bulma. Vegeta glances down and immediately recognizes the shaky attempt at precision that is his daughter’s handwriting. She’s gotten better recently, but watching her try to write a sentence is an exercise in frustration.  


“I remember this assignment,” Bulma says, twisting around to show Vegeta, as if he can’t see it just fine. “I helped her. She was trying to describe a shock wave, but didn’t have the word for it. We got a bit into talking stationary mediums but then I got a call and had to—”  


“Mrs. Briefs,” Miss Enn cuts in. “That isn’t the issue at hand.”  


“Did she get a bad grade on it? I thought it was good!”  


“Her grade isn’t why I asked you both to come here today.” How can his daughter _stand_ this woman? There’s nothing there. Her pleasant, blank smiles make Vegeta’s skin crawl.  


Enough of this. “Get on with it, then. I have better things to do than hang around in this germ-infested hellhole.”

Bulma glares balefully up at him. “Saiyans are immune to RNA viruses and you know it. You’re fi—Wait, what the hell do you need to do that you can’t be here?  _I’m_  the one who’s trying to run an actual business.”

“I should be training.”  


“You literally do nothing else,” she grumbles, settling back down to face Miss Enn. “An hour out of your day won’t kill you. Suck it up, buttercup.”  


“If we could get back to the matter at hand,” Miss Enn interrupts, the corner of her mouth twitching downward as if struggling against a frown. It’s a welcome crack in her mild-mannered mask. “Bulla completed the assignment, but it was the subject matter that I found disturbing.”  


“Disturbing?” Bulma squints down at the paper, where Bulla had painstakingly penned _My favorite memory is how I nocked my big brother TRUNKS unconshus becuz I made a shock wave._  “How is this disturbing?”

“It’s disturbing that our teenage son had his ass handed to him by a five-year old.” Vegeta has designed a new training regiment for their son, who is in for a rude awakening.  


Bulma sniffs. “Ten years ago, you were forcing him to withstand 150x normal gravity for hours without a bathroom break, and these days you can barely keep him there before noon. Seems to me like you’re growing soft in your old age.”

“I will _murder_  you.”  


“Promises, promises.” Bulma waves off the threat with an amused snort, the way she’s always done.  


The crack in Miss Enn’s facade yawns into a fault line, and she drops the soulless smile in favor of staring at them in horror. “You people are insane! How can you joke about this? Your daughter described causing physical harm to your son!”

“If the boy were serious about training like his sister, we wouldn’t be having this discussion,” Vegeta says with a shrug.  


Bulma nods her agreement, leaning forward to hand the paper back to Miss Enn. “I keep telling him that slacking is gonna come back to bite him in the ass someday, but he gets the whole not listening to me thing from you.”

There’s a vein in Miss Enn’s forehead that throbs with the threat of an explosion, and Vegeta gives it his full attention. He wants to see it blow. “Mr. and Mrs. Briefs, this is a serious matter! Condoning this kind of violence is unacceptable! I have half a mind to call child protective services!”

At that, Bulma cackles. “Oh please. We’re not _abusing_  our children, or condoning violence.”

“Well,” Vegeta begins.  


“Stop helping,” Bulma butts in. “You see, Miss Enn, our children are, uh, students. You know, martial arts students. They’re training under–”  


He knows exactly what she’s going to say and he reaches out to cup his hand over her mouth to stop it, but he’s too slow.

“–Mr. Satan himself! Our families are very close, you see. My godson is married to Mr. Satan’s daughter.”

The slightly wild look in Miss Enn’s eyes dims and winks out entirely before being replaced by relief. “Mr. Satan is teaching Bulla to fight?”

“Over my dead body,” Vegeta mutters.  


“He is,” Bulma says brightly. “She’s learning a lot under the World’s Greatest Champion. Our son has been Mr. Satan’s student for years, but it seems that our little Bulla is far more… uh, gifted in this than he is. When she came home with this assignment, she asked if she could write about the time she first bested her brother in a sparring match. A match that Mr. Satan himself personally coached.”  


That she can lie so convincingly and with such a genuine smile on her face makes him want to go through every interaction they’ve ever had with a fine-toothed comb. No wonder she’s never lost an argument. If he weren’t so horrified, he’d be incredibly impressed. And turned on.

As if she can read his mind, she turns her head slightly to flash him a wicked smirk. 

Miss Enn, all flustered laughter, flutters her hands at Bulma. “Oh, Mrs. Briefs, I’m so glad to hear that! For a minute, I was under the impression that your children were… well, beating the snot out of each other for amusement.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Bulma says, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.   


His wife is terrifying.

“Well, I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding, and for calling you away from your company for this,” Miss Enn says, standing. Bulma does the same, reaching over to shake the other woman’s hand. “I think it’s wonderful that your children are Mr. Satan’s students. It explains why she’s so well-behaved.”  


“Oh yes,” Bulma agrees, lips twitching. “Mr. Satan certainly is known for his docility.”  


He follows the two of them to the door, beyond ready to get out of here. There has to be a better place to send his daughter for an education. Maybe Whis will take her on.

He tunes back to the conversation in time to hear “… think it’s wonderful that Bulla is so imaginative. It’s always golden-haired warriors and green aliens. Why, she swears up and down that you can fly, Mr. Briefs.”  


“Imaginative,” he echoes. Just before he manages to slip out of the doorway, he spies the monkey with his hair on the closet door. It disintegrates with a satisfying hiss in thanks to a very focused ki blast.  


With a shriek, Miss Enn jumps back. 

Bulma smiles brightly, pats the woman on the shoulder, and says, “I don’t know if you have any field trips coming up, but give us a call if you need chaperones. My godson has a friend—more of a parental figure, really—who’s _great_  with children.”

They take to the echo-y corridor, in search of an exit, leaving Miss Enn to deal with her shock alone.

“I’ve never seen you talk your way out of a problem like that.”  


Bulma smiles and slips her hand into his. “Impressed?”

“ _Suspicious_ ,” Vegeta snaps. “How many times have you pulled that shit on me?”  


“Oh, look! There’s the door.”  



	5. Bulma doesn't need saving, thank you very much.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i love your fics *-* could you write something about vegeta saving bulma from an enemy? c: thank you!_

It’s been nine days since she reached out for him and he had been too slow to meet her outstretched fingers. 216 hours since she screamed his name with a terrible fear, tears leaving the safety of her lashes and playing at being rain. 12,960 minutes since an old relic from his past laid hands on his wife without her permission and stole away with her into the sprawling, gaping nothingness of space.  


It’s nine nights of bloodsoaked, mangled what-ifs clawing at the insides of his lids every time he closes his eyes. It’s nine mornings of forcing his body through training like he’s never done, pushing himself past his limits, tearing muscle and bruising bone in the name of preparation and restlessness.  

Nine days is an eternity of loss, and he’ll burn the universe down to get her back.

While he trains and slips into the darkest corners of his imagination, the others gather the dragon balls. It is the first time that he can remember in which the orbs are used for something other than circumventing death. For this, they reduce the ageless, mighty Shenron to a map.

She has been taken to a shadow, a hidden nook in an easily overlooked system, and by the time Whis finishes eating his parfait and takes them there, Vegeta is ready. His blood sings with the promise of a good battle, a righteous one, and the rage in his heart only focuses him. The others grant him a wide berth, too wary of the wide, ready grin that stretches his face, too reminiscent of the day an M was blazoned in his flesh.

“Take out his subordinates,” he barks to them. “But you leave Neba to me.”

They have been dropped into a veritable labyrinth, corridors twisting into impossibilities, stairs that go up and down, sideways, all ways, and he is forced to run because flight only confuses things more. This place is pulsing with intent, and it works against him with every open door, every turned corner. Entire rooms wink out of existence the moment he enters, while others erupt into being around him. 

Neba never made anything easy when he was contracted by the Kolds, and it doesn’t surprise Vegeta to see nothing has changed. He honestly has no idea how they will beat him. Sheer force will do nothing; Neba will just twist reality to suit him.

But for what Neba has done, for who he has taken, Vegeta will find a way.

Or.

Well, that had been the plan.

After searching for eons, Vegeta finds Neba in a world of wires and code, the sky filled with the glare of monitors, the ground clicking with endless strings of keys and buttons. Levers stretch up like trees, and through the air whiz birds crafted entirely of metal.

Neba lies on a batch of keys, dead.

A few feet in front of him, seated with her feet up on a metal table, is his wife, who’s tinkering with a tablet that trills and shivers gladly in her hands. 

Vegeta can’t even comprehend what he’s seeing. “You're… You’re okay.”

At that, she lifts her eyes. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m good.”

“Neba’s dead.” He’s dreaming. He must be. Even Frieza had been unwilling to cross Neba.

“Mmhmm.” A rakish grin tugs at her mouth and she goes back to her tablet, delicately working a screwdriver into it. “Once again, the human was underestimated and ended up kicking ass and taking names. I charted a course for home, but this little guy—” The tablet squeals happily. “—needed some diagnostic upgrades, and he helped me take down Neba, so I figured I’d do this real quick before heading back. Nice of you to finally show up, though.”

“We got to the edge of the universe in nine days.”

She shrugs. “You’re later than I thought you’d be.” 

During their downtime after purges, Nappa used to joke that one day Vegeta would meet an opponent that he couldn’t overcome with brute force alone, and would likely go insane because of it. Vegeta had laughed it off at the time, saying that there was no one alive who could best him—physically or mentally. When he was beaten by Kakarot, he revised that estimation to being unparalleled mentally.

Then he met this woman, both the love of his life and the bane of his entire existence. 

And she’s going to drive him to madness.

“All right, cutie, you’re all set.” Bulma removes her feet from the table and the tablet hops out of her hands, floating around her head twice, lit up and chirping ecstatically, before darting away to join the monitors in the sky. Bulma watches it go, smiling faintly, before clapping her hands together and turning to him with a bright look. “So! Are the others here?”

“Don’t even start,” he growls. “You have no idea what you put us through.”

“Aww,” she coos, holding out her arms and coming in to hug him. “Were you worried?”

He dodges her. “I hate you. I’m leaving.”

Laughing, she jumps at him, and his arms come up of their own volition to catch her. Her legs wrap around his waist and she presses her forehead to his, her smile to his scowl. “You loooove me.”

“I don’t,” Vegeta grumbles, but it sounds unconvincing to his own ears. “Get off me.”

“C'mon, tough guy,” Bulma murmurs. She brushes a sweet kiss over the corner of his mouth, then pulls back to beam down at him like they’re back home and it’s just another day. 

It sometimes terrifies him how much he loves her, this fragile creature who took down one of Frieza’s most notorious enemies without lifting a fist. Despite the fact that he would have trawled through every world, every universe, to get her back, she hadn’t needed him to save her. She’s never needed anyone for that.

Vegeta tilts his chin up to meet her gaze and accepts the kiss she gives him with a terrible gratefulness. 

Bulma pulls back with a grin. “Let’s go home.”

He’s already there. 


	6. Human bodies are a ridiculous construct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _sick fic? or anything hurt/comforty? vegebul_

The sickly-sweet scent of fever assaults him the instant he opens the door, twisted notes of decay and corruption woven through it like a blush wine, and he swallows hard against it, pushing his gorge down. Human bodies are a ridiculous construct–that they can be felled so easily by their _own_  defenses is laughable. It honestly floors him sometimes that they managed to survive themselves, never mind the rest of the planet, to accomplish what they have.

He steps inside, shutting the door behind him, and studies the shivering lump under the duvet where the odor of sickness is most concentrated, which is of course where he needs to be.

“Get up,” Vegeta barks. “The simulator is broken again.”  


There’s no answer, which rankles. 

“Did you hear me? The simulator is broken, and if you don’t fix it within the next few hours, I will–”  


“Kill me.”  


He blinks, stymied, and then crosses his arms. At least she’s well aware that the simulator is all that stands between her and certain death. Most of the fools she associates with–particularly that third-class nothing–haven’t caught on quite yet. The fact that he plans to eliminate the cyborgs alongside them does not make them allies; as soon as the first threat is dispatched, they’re next. “Exactly.”

“No, I’m asking,” the lump on the bed rasps, every word like the drag of broken glass. “Kill me.”  


Vegeta rolls his eyes. “Save your dramatics for someone who cares. You’re not dying.”

“Fix that for me,” she groans. “It’ll make both our day.”  


“Fix the simulator and I’ll do it happily,” he says. “I’ll even allow you to say goodbye to your idiot friends before I send you to Hell.”  


The lump coughs piteously, then whimpers, shifting with the susurrus of bare skin sliding over the sheets. A tangled, blue mess crowns at the opening of the duvet, followed by bleary eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. She presents a pitiful display, all flushed cheeks and cracked lips.

Something in his chest tightens at the sight of her, and he averts his gaze to the table next to the bed, where a dozen bottles of medicine and used tissues clutter the surface. 

“If you’re not going to put me out of my misery, then go the hell away and leave me to suffer in peace,” she whines.  


“I _order_  you to fix the–”  


A raucous cough breaks through his words, and he waits for her to finish hacking. All the while, his shoulders grow tenser and tenser, laced through with an anger he can’t name. 

“Even if I wanted to, which I _don’t_ ,” she gasps, looking for all the world as if she’s about to go into another fit, “I don’t think I could even lift a drill.”

“Why?”

“Because everything hurts.” With that, she struggles her way back under the duvet, and puts an end to the conversation. 

There’s a ball of ki crackling in his palm before he realizes, and he disperses it just as easily. His jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching his teeth, but it’s a rage unfounded. Even as a spoiled boy, he recognized when physical incapability meant he couldn’t get what he wanted. Granted, normally he killed those to weak to do his bidding, but for the ones who were indisposable, he allowed them their handicaps. This is no different. She’s clearly too infirm to do anything, but he can’t quite shake the restlessness beneath his skin. He wants to punch something. He wants to rip the walls down around them until the adrenaline born from her fear forces her to her feet. 

Beneath the blankets comes a sad cough.  


With a growl, he stalks over to the bed and throws back the duvet, exposing her to the air. She whines and curls into herself, shuddering. 

“Move,” Vegeta hisses, sliding in beside her, sitting up against the headboard. He shoves his hands under her too-hot armpits and hauls her up against him, tucking her head under his chin.

“What the fu–”

He closes his eyes and dives inside himself, parses through his ki until he finds a hook, warm and bronze. It’s short work to press it into her skin, delving beneath to flood every part of her, and he slowly increases the intensity of it until the muscles beneath his hand slowly stop seizing. He pushes it further, ballooning it through the constricted airways in her lungs, the shrunken arteries in her brain. He’s never made a secret of his skill at shock and awe, and the battlefield of her body is overwhelmed by the onslaught. 

With a grateful sigh, she melts into him, sniffling gently against the skin of his neck. 

“Thank you.”  


“You will speak of this to _no one_.”  



	7. Sicko Slider Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Vegeta and Trunks eating at a local burger joint?_

There’s an excited tug on his shirt hem, followed by “Papa, look.”  


Biting down on an annoyed growl, Vegeta looks away from the menu–it’s the only thing keeping his attention off the family of nine seated by the door. The adults of the group need to wrangle their obnoxiously screaming groin spawn before he sends them to Enma-daiou, who might actually do some real parenting–to where Trunks is pointing. There’s a sign on the wall made of wood, deliberately distressed at the edges to look as if it were an antique, and it’s such a human thing to do that it makes him clench his teeth a little, but then his gaze lights on the reason for his son’s interest. 

He reads it twice, just to be sure, before looking down at Trunks, who’s rubbing his hands together with a truly frightening grin on his face.

“Can you imagine the looks on their faces? What do you think they’ll give us if we eat _four_  challenges?” Trunks peers up at him, eyes bright with purpose, and for a moment Vegeta can see the king he might have been.   


The annoyance from earlier dissipates like smoke, Vegeta claps Trunks on the shoulder and advises, “We won’t settle for anything less than free ice cream for life.”

“Right,” Trunks says, nodding very seriously. “Take ‘em for all they got.”

“Divide and conquer,” Vegeta agrees. “Make it an even five challenges for each of us – that ought to hold us until dinner.”  


“I bet I can finish my fries before you!” Trunks boasts, and Vegeta makes a considering noise. Now  _that’s_  a challenge.  


“And after I beat you, you will clean your bedroom without complaint,” he snaps. “It’s a sty and unbefitting a prince.”  


“You’re on. Prepare to lose, old man.”  


As Trunks goes up to the counter to make their order, Vegeta silently tacks on extra time in the gravity chamber to the wager, because Trunks should understand that respect and merciless crushing of an opponent go hand in hand. Bulma’s always telling him to turn things into teachable moments.


	8. Kidnapped!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _bra is kidnapped by space slave traders. Vegeta and Bulma retrieve her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: I can't write kids worth a damn.

_Bulla, listen to me, okay?_

It’s been ages since they locked her in here. She’d tried counting to pass the time but she only got to 1,288 before the inside of her tummy felt like it was twisting into knots.

_Someday, sweetheart, someone might come for you. Papa has… a lot of people who want to hurt him, and the best way to do that is to take you from us. If that ever happens, here’s what you do._

Papa says that being scared is for the weak. Mama usually tells him to shut up and says that being scared is perfectly okay, but it shouldn’t keep her from doing what she needs to do to survive. So she sits on her hands until they stop shaking.

_Calm down. Don’t get yourself all worked up. It’s okay to be afraid, but don’t let them see—they’ll use it against you._

The door swings open with a slow whine and suddenly she’s not alone. There are two sets of footsteps coming closer. Breathing out, she carefully gets to her feet and does what Mama does when she wants people to think she’s taller than she is: she puts her hands on her hips and tilts her chin up. 

_Look them in the eyes. Stare them down._

“Well, well.” It’s spoken by a scary girl with cold eyes that look like the night sky above her bedroom balcony—an endless stretch of black, because there’s too much light in the city to see the stars. This is the pirate who chased her until she was tired enough to be captured. Stronger, faster, better. “We caught ourselves a pretty one.”

The other pirate, with hair like the sun and wearing a look that she can’t read, sniffs. “She barely put up a fight, too. That’ll bump her price up, don’t you think? People like it when they don’t fight back.”

She shivers, but says nothing. She meets the gaze of the first pirate, who’s around her height if not a little smaller, and makes sure all her hatred can be seen in her eyes. There may be two of them and only one of her, but she’s not going to let them bully her like this. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.” 

It wins a haughty laugh from the pirate with the golden hair. “Oh? And who are we messing with?”

“I am Bulla Briefs, princess of the saiyans,” she says proudly. “And you’re going to be in so much trouble when my parents get here.”

“A princess?” The pirate with the black eyes gasps, but it sounds and looks fake, and when she bows before Bulla it’s with a mean, “Your _majesty_.”

“No, no,” Bulla says, because it’s all wrong. “It’s ‘your highness’. ‘Majesty’ is only for kings and queens. You’d say that to Mama and Papa.”

The blonde pirate rolls her eyes. “How are we supposed to know that? It’s not like they make us say it.”

_They will tell you that Papa isn’t coming for you. That I’m not coming for you._

“Never mind that!” The black-eyed pirate shouts, stamping her foot. “It doesn’t matter, because your parents aren’t coming for you.”

_They’re lying._

“You’re lying,” Bulla shouts back. “They’ll always come for me!”

“They won’t! They don’t love you. In fact, they sold you to us! They took the money and went on vacation, and the whole time they were like, _‘isn’t it great that Bulla isn’t here? She was dumb and stuck up.’_ ”

“Hey, that’s not nice,” the blonde pipes up, eyes wide. 

“I am not stuck up,” Bulla protests, offended. “You’re a stupid pirate, and I’m going to tell my parents what you said when they get here!”

_And if for any reason you feel like you’re truly in danger, remind them who you are. Make sure they understand what a huge mistake they made when they realize just who it is they’re dealing with._

The black-eyed pirate sticks out her tongue. “Not if I sell you to a big, old, fat _slug monster_ first!”

“You don’t know any slug monsters,” Bulla snaps.

“I could! You don’t know! You don’t know a thing about space and slavers!”

_Fight back._

“You’re right. You know why? Because I’m Bulla Briefs and you’re _dead meat_!” With a battle cry, Bulla pushes her ki into her feet the way Papa taught her and springs forward, ready to take down the black-eyed pirate, but something loops around her waist and yanks her back. “What?! No—” 

“I’ve got her!” The blonde calls out, tightening her arm.

Bulla kicks and thrashes, but she’s held fast. The black-eyed pirate smirks and slowly advances, rubbing her hands together. “Good work. Let’s dock at Port Bee and head straight to the… the, uh… what’s the place where we sell slaves called again?”

“Auction,” the blonde pirate supplies helpfully, and the black-eyed pirate snaps her fingers.

“Right! Auction. I’m going to sell you to the ugliest person there for 10 zeni.”

At that, Bulla stops struggling and rolls her eyes. “People on other planets don’t use zeni, dummy. They use acerna.”

The blonde peers down at her, curiosity lighting her eyes. “What’s acerna?”

“I dunno. Papa said it was money that you could eat. They were like peas.” Bulla leans back into her. “So, it wasn’t very good money. I don’t like peas.”

“Yeah, peas are gross,” the black-eyed pirate agrees. “Especially the little ones. Daddy makes me sit at the table until I’ve finished mine, and it takes forever.”

Still holding Bulla, the blonde pirate _harrumphs_. “Well, I think you’re both wrong, because peas are delicious. I like them in omurice.”

Bulla tilts her head back. “That’s ‘cause you’re weird.”

There’s a mechanical whir outside—the cutting of an industrial engine—followed by the loud click of doors opening. One shuts normally; the other one slams. _“For god’s sake, Vegeta, would you close the damn door like a normal person? You keep breaking things when you slam them like that.”_

_“Make better doors, then.”_

She grins at the black-haired pirate. “Oooh, you’re in trouble now. Told you they’d come.”

“Whatever. You were an awful hostage. They can have you.”

“Bulla? You in here?” It’s Mama, who’s dressed in her pretty suit, which means she had an important meeting at Capsule Corp. Normally Mama wears really soft, thin jeans and shirts that have oil on them. Bulla likes those outfits the best because it means Mama might be working on a cool robot and needs Bulla to help hand her tools.

Behind Mama is Papa, who looks at her weirdly. “What the hell is this?”

“Hi, Papa!” Bulla waves. “I’ve been kidnapped by space pirates!”

Mama grins. “Oh? Do we have to kick ass and take names?”

Pan snorts like a little pig and picks at her gi. “Bulla wasn’t a very good hostage.”

“You got here before we could sell her,” Marron explains, finally unlooping her arm from around Bulla’s waist. “Princesses are in high demand. We could’ve made a ton of money.”

“I have it on good authority that princesses are more trouble than they’re worth,” Mama says brightly and winks at Papa, who mutters something and crosses his arms, looking away. His cheeks are pink. 

Bulla laughs, because she loves it when he does that, and runs over to hug him. She’s just tall enough to wrap her arms around his stomach. “Papa, even if I’m trouble, you’d still come for me, right?”

“I’d expect you to save yourself. No child of the House of Vegeta is going to sit around and wait for a man to save her when she’s perfectly capable of doing so herself.” He gives her the look that means he’s thinking. “Perhaps we should spend less time on flight and more time on strength training. You’re almost seven. You should be able to rip apart walls by now.”

That sounds like fun! “Mama, can I?”

Mama makes a thoughtful noise and shrugs. “Eh, I don’t see why not. I mean, we’ll have to have a nice long talk about which walls are for ripping. Prison walls, yes. Boardroom walls? Not so much.”

“Are you still on about that?” Papa demands, placing a hand upon Bulla’s hair. “That was one time, and you were bored to tears anyway. If anything, I did you a favor. You should be _thanking_ me.”

“Hold onto those dreams, babe,” Mama says and pecks him on the cheek. “All right, sweetie. Time to go home. Marron, thanks for keeping this one busy.”

Marron beams. “No problem, Mrs. Briefs! If you’re looking for Mom and Dad, they’re on the other side of the island. Something’s wrong with the, uh, septic tank.”

“If they can’t figure it out, tell your mom to call me. I’ll come back and take care of it. Pan, honey, stay sharp. I overheard your dad saying that he was going to cut your training time with your grandpa so you could focus on your studies.”

Pan throws her head back and groans to the sky. “Nooooo. I hate doing math.”

Mama winks. “Well, you’ll just have to come over and _play_ with Bulla more often, now won’t you?”

“At least she’d be learning something valuable,” Papa mutters, and Pan brightens.

“Really, Mr. Vegeta? Awesome! I’ll be the best student ever!”

Bulla wants to say that just because Pan’s dad is boring doesn’t mean she can take Bulla’s, but Mama always says that if you can’t say something nice, fake being nice until they think you’re their friend and then cut their legs out from under them when they least expect it. She’ll wait. 

“Can we go home now?” Bulla inquires, rocking back and forth on her shoe heels. They’re shiny and they have straps, and she hasn’t scuffed them once. “ _Magical Girl Solar Soldiers_ is coming on soon.”

Papa lifts her onto his shoulder and starts for the craft, and Mama follows, making faces at her.

“Bye, Marron! Bye, Pan! Next time, I’m gonna kidnap you, but I won’t sell you!” Bulla shouts over Papa’s hair, waving. “I’ll just kill you and send your ashes to your families!”

“Oh my god,” Mama groans.

Papa pats her foot where it bounces over his chest. “I knew you were my favorite for a reason.”


	9. Long live the queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fic in which an old enemy steals Bulma's invention to subdue and kidnap Vegeta and Bulma rescues him with cooler weaponry. P.S. I love love love your vegebul fics :)_

“Let him go or I’ll take you down _so_  hard that your great-great-great-great grandchildren will still be picking up the pieces.” 

It’s not her best line, but there’s a countdown in the blood trickling from the corners of Vegeta’s mouth to the floor below where he’s strung up. She’s not about to run out the clock trying to come up with something better.  


Slowly, painstakingly, Vegeta turns his head maybe an inch to the right and grits out, “Get _out_  of here, Bulma,” before crumbling into himself, spent. 

He’s barely a shadow of the man she knows and loves, wide-eyed and feverish, twisting uselessly against his bonds when he finds the energy. If the ki-dampening ropes pulling at his wrists were any tighter, they’d tear his arms clean off. They weren’t meant to be used like this, and definitely not for such a long period of time. They weren’t meant to be used _at all_. Made on a lark, just to see, just to test. It wasn’t until one of her new staff members—a plant—betrayed her by stealing the prototype _and_  her husband for a name they hadn’t uttered in over a decade.

Bulma’ll be conducting _very_  thorough background checks from now on.

There’s a loud booming laugh. “ _You_? _You’re_  going to take me down? Oh, little insect, you amuse me. Are all humans so uproarious? I must admit, I have not encountered many of your kind… well, not long enough to listen to them do anything but beg for their own lives.”  


She doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see yet _another_  member of the Kold family still running around causing problems, but here they are: at the edge of some distant system in a seriously pimped-out spaceship. It’s so state of the art that she had to tack on an extra hour into things. 

“Yep,” Bulma says. The bravado in her voice is only a little forced. “Me.”  


Aycee, current queen of the Kold empire thanks to the untimely deaths of her father and older brothers, scoffs. “I can barely detect your life energy, insect. With what power do you plan to stop me?”  


“ _Bulma_.” It’s dragged out like the edge of a knife over flawed stone, a long drawn-out plea muffled by the rise of blood in his throat. Her heart aches to see Vegeta’s fear on display like this, especially when she knows it’s only because he’s too drained to hide it.   


Time to end this.

“Aycee—can I call you Aycee?—I think it’s time we stop posturing and start getting serious.”  


A cruel, but genuinely amused smile curls deep, violet lips, and Aycee tips her head in agreement. “You have my ear. For now.”

She’ll take it. For now. “We’re both smart women. We wouldn’t be where we are today if we weren’t. Fists and bloodshed—I mean, what good does it do in the end?”

“I’ll admit I never favored my brothers’ boorish methods, but you cannot argue their results. Frieza had 79 planets in his hold when he died. Not an inconsiderable number. Kooler had even more. My father’s reach was in the thousands.”

“All under your rule now,” Bulma surmises. “And then some.”  


“All mine, and then some,” Aycee practically purrs. “My father and brothers were content to call these worlds their own but leave them to be ruled as they had been. No change but in ownership. Can you imagine? All that potential, squandered. They had no head to be _true_ lords. But I… I took their spoils and linked them into something greater. Imposed my own rule. Culled back the gristle and forged what was left into a profitable industry. And I stood on the soil of the planet that took my family and neutered the dirty monkey responsible.”

Bulma feels a muscle jump in her cheek but says nothing. She already got Goku out. 

“But the _prince_ ,” Aycee rumbles, swirling her goblet of wine, crossing her legs at the knees with an indolent smile. “To have the saiyan _prince_  in the palm of my hands… To add his home to my collection and enslave the race he has come to view as his own… Delicious, isn’t it? I will avenge my family by taking the planet that took them—the planet they were too _weak_ for—and once again make a pet of my father’s hated enemy. It is almost too good to believe.”

“You’re right. It is too good to believe, because I’m going to send it all crashing down in a minute.”  


Aycee pauses. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I was going to take you down, and I meant it,” Bulma says.  


“You have no ki to speak of!” Aycee snaps. The air explodes as her aura erupts with a violent boom, wreathing her body in white flame. “You can’t possibly hope to stand against the empress of the universe!”  


There’s the opening she’s been waiting for. Reaching into her back pocket, she pulls out a device no longer than her ring finger, smooth as a stone. Standing proudly atop its surface are a button and a light; the light glows blue. 

“You can’t be an empress if you don’t have an empire,” Bulma sings, waving the device around. 

With a growl, Aycee hurls her goblet of wine into the wall and gets to her feet. “Speak quickly, insect. You’re beginning to try my patience.”

“See, when I first boarded your ship, I didn’t come straight here. I took a little detour to your main hub. Turns out, you linked more than just the planets you own: you installed your personal network into them too. Your entire economy, your entire governing body, your whole _empire_ … all linked together. Imagine what a little bit of code could do to all that.”  


There’s no reaction other than those violet lips parting around an expulsion of air, and Bulma knows she’s got her.

“When I was a little girl, I had a favorite story. It was about a hero who fought a monster that had a bunch of heads called a hydra. When he cut off one head, two grew back. He realized that cutting off the heads would get him nowhere, but fire… fire would cauterize the wounds and prevent the hydra from regrowing its heads.” She holds up the device so that the light catches it. “I hate to tell you, but you’re no better than your brothers and your dad. You’re just another head that keeps popping up. And I love my husband and my best friend to pieces, but they’ll just keep cutting until they run out of swords. Me? I’ll cauterize the wound, every time.”

She presses the button. The light bleeds from blue to red.

Immediately, there’s a screech that resounds through the throne room in which Aycee decided to hold this little showdown, followed by a loud whirring that slowly goes silent. The gentle hum of the ki-dampening ropes dies, and Vegeta flares into brilliant gold and pulls them out of the ceiling.

Spitting out his mouthful of blood, Vegeta floats to the floor and comes to stand behind her. A gloved hand curls over her hip with a grateful squeeze. Her free hands comes up to cover it.

The ship shudders. Aycee froths at the mouth, apoplectic. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

“Taking you down, remember?” She can’t for the life of her think of the last time she was so damn cheerful about having the upper hand. Even Vegeta doesn’t make winning this fun. “I’m in your system now. I’m in _all_  your systems now. Like shattered glass. You’re going to sweep most of me up, but you’ll never find all of my pieces. Even if you rebuild your system from the ground up, there will be traces of me, ready and waiting to cut deep. You’ll never be rid of me.”

When the blast comes, it’s too fast for her to see, but Vegeta bats it away like it’s nothing. It goes careening into a pillar, which disintegrates in a fit of metal and dust.

“The power and agency you’ve stolen from all of those worlds will revert back to them, and they will have the full backing of the Earth Special Forces should you move against them—although I’m not sure how you would. Your networks, your machines, your military, and your ship are all under _my_ control.”

Vegeta moves without a sound, fazing out like television snow and reappearing in front of Aycee in less time than it takes Bulma to blink. He draws his fist back, knuckles wreathed in gold flame, and shoves it through Aycee’s chest. 

With a garbled scream, Aycee sinks over Vegeta’s shoulder, and Bulma tilts her chin up so Aycee will look into her eyes and know exactly what Bulma Briefs is capable of. 

“There’s only one queen worth her salt around here and it isn’t you.”

A wet snap rents the air as Vegeta jerks his hand free of Aycee’s chest, and clutched in his dripping fist is the swollen plum of a tyrant’s heart. He looks down at it, sucks air through his teeth in derision, and then tosses it away. It bounces twice before rolling to a stop at Bulma’s feet.

Vegeta steps to the side as Aycee’s corpse topples to the floor, which he kicks away like so much trash. “I am _no one’s_  pet.”

Bulma’s hands come up to press against her breast where an almost unbearable warmth swells. She says nothing, content to let him have this moment. It’s his more than anyone’s.

Back straight, he turns. “The queen is dead.” 

“Is this where I’m supposed to say ‘long live the king’?” She asks dryly, crossing her arms and toeing absently at Aycee’s heart with her boot.  


It brings a grin to Vegeta’s face, one that’s still there as he floats down from the throne platform and lands before her. A gloved hand comes up to brush at the sensitive skin of her throat, sparking the fuse of a shiver that travels down her spine and releases in her fingers. 

She looks into his eyes – made blue by pain and power, myth and legend—and loves him terribly.

What she finds in his gaze suggests the feeling is entirely mutual.

“The queen is dead.” He lowers his mouth to hers. “Long live the queen.”  



	10. Double Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A fic about Bulma and Vegeta finding out she's pregnant with Bulla?_

No matter how long and hard she stares at it, the double blue line does not change.

Well, shit.

It was only a matter of time before one of the condoms broke, before her birth control lost the battle against saiyan supremacy. If anything, she’s surprised it took so long. This should’ve happened way sooner, ideally when she was a little less worried about the risks her age poses and more inclined to run around after a toddler. 

The first time around, she walked the line between excited and terrified and spent her nights holed up in the lab, thinking up heartbreakingly amazing monologues that were seriously award-worthy and envisioning the dramatic change of heart that was sure to follow. Instead, he found out on his own—smelled the hCG in her urine or something—and said some truly awful things that drove her to make the first three prototypes of what would have been his end. She quietly burned the schematics and dismantled the devices once she calmed down. 

There won’t be any of that vitriol this time. He respects her too much, loves her too hard, to let that fear and general asshattery get the better of him. They’re an actual family now, and all that implies.

Which means she can tell him the way he deserves to hear it.

+

Vegeta doesn’t know what to expect when he opens the gravity chamber door, but having a tiny plastic thing whipped at his face with a “START THINKING UP NAMES, JACKASS” isn’t one of them.

He watches Bulma stalk across the lawn back toward the house, then looks down at the white stick in his hand. Almost immediately, the inside of his nose shivers under the onslaught of a thick pungence that is somehow familiar. Come to it, the last time he smelled anything remotely like it was–

The stick falls from lax fingers.

“Oh, fuck _me_.”


	11. Embracing a storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _could you write something about what it's like hugging vegeta?_

Vegeta steps away from where Goku greets his own family and Mr. Satan looks dazedly around the Lookout, and Trunks immediately launches himself at his father, grasping that strong hand in both of his. Vegeta looks down at him with an expression she can’t quantify, lips twisted thoughtfully, and he studies the boy with his blood who grasped a legacy as though it were a game.   


Vegeta’s gaze has been made soft by something, a secret that she isn’t privy to, and she can’t find it within herself to be jealous when he’s standing before her, alive and whole, the air above the apex of his ridiculous hair absent of gold. 

When he looks up and finds her gaze, she pauses. How is she supposed to greet him? The shiver of fear that had crawled up her spine at the stadium prowls up and down her vertebrae, defending its territory like an agitated beast, tail thrashing uneasily. And yet, she heard him only a few hours ago, begging the people of the world he’s come to call home for their energy, for their faith, so that they might help him save _them_. Save her. She had thrown her hands to the sky without question, then. Why would she even hesitate now?

She gives him a thumbs up, because hey, he did good. 

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Is that it?”

“What else did you want?” She asks, stunned. Vegeta’s never asked her for anything, let alone more than what she’s given him.   


But then she looks at him, really looks, and swallows hard at the exhaustion clinging to him, the downward slope of his proud shoulders, the way the fingers of the hand that isn’t held by their son twitch and close into a fist, then relax, then tense. He glances at her, at the floor, at whatever’s over her shoulder, then back at her. 

“I just saved the world,” Vegeta says, and at least his characteristic brusqueness is still there.   


“I think we all helped with that one, buddy.” She can’t help but feel smug at the reluctant smile that pulls at his lips, because he honestly finds someone of her power level teasing someone of _his_ funny.   


There should be a rebuttal following, but there’s nothing, and he stares at her for a long moment before doing something she never in her _wildest_  dreams could have expected.

He lifts his arm invitingly.

She stares.

“ _Today_ ,” he snarls, because Vegeta’s never met a moment he couldn’t ruin.   


Hugging a storm isn’t something she ever would have dreamed of doing, not even as a young girl. It’s such an impossibility that she couldn’t even draft a machine to do it _for_ her if she tried. Storms are too vast, too incomprehensible, and in such a constant state of flux that her fingers would be left covetous, grasping with want and thwarted at every turn. 

Her husband smells like petrichor and the spark of electric potential, and he rumbles against the swell of her cheek as he tightens his hold on her. She closes her eyes and fights her lizard brain when it tells her that something is coming, to find shelter and hide until it goes out to sea.

She hangs on a little harder.


End file.
